


love always wakes the dragon

by thermocline



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Dungeons and Dragons, Ensemble Cast, Getting Together, M/M, Offseason Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 04:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11592765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thermocline/pseuds/thermocline
Summary: Hayds narrows his eyes, poring over the symbols and stats and information. “So what do we do with these?”“It’s a role playing game,” Zach says blankly.“What kind of weird shit are you and Larks into -”“Not like that.” Zach’s exasperation bleeds through his tone. “You make decisions and it keeps the story going.”“Okay, so where’s the board? Where are the pieces?”“You’re an asshole. We don’t get maps until we enter a new area that isn’t a tavern,” Thatcher says, then puts his hands over his mouth as if to shut himself up. John stares at him.





	love always wakes the dragon

**Author's Note:**

> this is a short lil id fic, loosely inspired by community 2x14 "advanced dungeons and dragons" and the early 30's episodes of critical role, as well as that one photo that larks posted to his instagram story with the caption "dungeon master". i know it was referential to the d-boss thing but surprise, i am taking liberties. there really isn't a timeline, i'm just assuming that they hung out the summer after what would've been Thatcher's first year at BC and Dylan's rookie year.
> 
> title is from Siken's "litany in which certain things are crossed out" because it was so fucking perfect. unbeta'd, but thank you to chris and hailey and mel, love always. enjoy.

_ You find yourself in a tavern, as most great adventures start, drinking as a ragtag group when a large barbarian bursts in the doors, weeping, and joins you at the bar. He tells you, in no gentle language, that there is a dragon in the nearby mountain range who has never been an issue, until very recently, when she attacked the village below her. Dozens of people have lost their homes, and any attempts at peacemaking seem futile - _

 

“Is the barbarian Chiznasty?” Hayds asks, raising his head from where he’d been focused on his phone.

 

“You shut the fuck up,” Charlie cuts in, cheeks red, and Hayds smirks. Charlie reaches over the table, shoving his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, looking fiery.

 

“ _ Guys _ ,” Dylan bellows emphatically. “Can we please just - I spent like, two hours last night trying to optimize this campaign for you impatient assholes, and you can’t even stay quiet.”

 

“Blame Hayds.”

 

“You watch your back,  _ Charles _ -”

 

“If I recall correctly,” Dylan adds, authoritative. “You guys were the ones who suddenly wanted to play Dungeons & Dragons, right?”

 

“Yes,” Matty snaps, rolling his eyes in Hayds’ general direction. “It’s good team building. I told you. Builds your focus if the story is detailed enough.”

 

Dylan gives him a grateful look. Zach seconds it. It isn’t like D&D is the most exciting thing, but it makes Dylan happy, and it gives him something to pour his careful focus into on nights where he’d otherwise be restless. Plus, he gets to fight dragons sometimes, and that’s pretty cool.

 

Zach breaks the silence by cracking his knuckles on the edge of the coffee table in Dylan’s basement, adjusting the plaid blanket around his shoulders and the pillow he’s sitting on. Their setup is far from glamorous, but it’s kind of cozy with the air conditioning whirring away in the corner. It isn’t ideal, but Dylan didn’t want to intrude on Riley and Luke’s place during the offseason, and Dylan’s parents don’t seem to mind, as long as they’re not trashing the house or anything.

 

“Continue,” Thatcher says apologetically, elbowing Hayds in the side and grabbing for his beer. Dylan pulls out a stack of papers and sighs before continuing.

 

_ However, the barbarian has heard that each of your partnerships has a good history of success, not quite with diplomacy, but with combat and negotiation. He recognized the leader of your party, a vicious Dwarven Ranger named Mercer. _

 

Matty grins, saluting Dylan and the rest of the group.

 

_ But he doesn’t know any of the rest of you, has only heard your names in passing, so thus - _

 

“Why doesn’t he know me? I already have a character,” Thatcher argues, a little whiny.

 

“It was the easiest way to explain it, okay,” Dylan sighs, frustrated, and Thatcher shuts up. He knows better than to upset the DM. “I’ve made character sheets for the rest of you, carefully balanced. Each one has its own distinct attributes, so choose wisely -”

 

There’s a  _ thump  _ of hands on the table and a scramble of the boys grabbing for the paper closest to them. 

 

“Nevermind.”

 

Hayds narrows his eyes, poring over the symbols and stats and information. “So what do we do with these?”

 

“It’s a role playing game,” Zach says blankly. 

 

“What kind of weird shit are you and Larks into -”

 

“Not like that.” Zach’s exasperation bleeds through his tone. “You make decisions and it keeps the story going.”

 

“Okay, so where’s the board? Where are the pieces?”

 

“You’re an asshole. We don’t get maps until we enter a new area that isn’t a tavern,” Thatcher says, then puts his hands over his mouth as if to shut himself up. John stares at him.

 

“Alright,” Dylan says, “Who’s who?”

 

“My name is Delhax, and I’m a human warlock,” Thatcher says. “I’m level five.”

 

“Wait,” Matt says, “I’m only level two, what the hell?”

 

“I’ve been playing for a while,” Thatcher admits, mumbling a little. His cheeks are pink. “Don’t worry about it. Someone else go next.”

 

“Okay,” Auston says, shrugging a little, picking up the character sheet he grabbed. “I’m Brad the Well Endowed - hold on, Dylan, what the hell -”

 

“Oh, that’s the barbarian that Brad made,” Dylan says. “Sometimes him and me and Zach play, so we asked him for help in making characters for a oneshot.”

 

What he doesn’t say is  _ we’re here playing the oneshot because Thatcher got sloshed last weekend and started crying his eyes out in my room, and wouldn’t shut up about how he felt alone, how he felt like a nerd, how he’ll never be good enough for John because John doesn’t like him back. _

 

It isn’t his place to say, really.

 

Auston rolls his eyes, listing a little into Matt’s side. “Your stats are really good though,” Dylan adds, as if that means anything to anyone here who isn’t him or Zach or Thatcher.

 

“Cool,” Auston affirms, noncommittal, and scans the sheet again. “It says here I can rage, too. That’ll come in handy.”

 

Matt snickers. “I’m Mercer. Guess I’m the leader here.”

 

“Don’t get cocky,” John scowls. “Anyways, I’m Heilyn, which is conveniently close to Hayds. It says I’m a druid? I don’t know what the hell that is.”

 

“Oh, you picked the druid! You’re close to nature. A patron of elvenkind. Here, you get the flower crown since you picked the druid sheet.”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s the rules,” Thatcher says, calm and collected, as Dylan slides him a wink. “Just go with it.”

 

John clearly doesn’t know enough about the rules to argue, so Dylan’s life is going pretty well right now, as far as the whole cheering people up thing goes.

 

“I’m a bard,” Charlie interjects. “Like, a huge ass species of humanoid who’s a bard. I don’t know how that makes sense, and I can’t sing very well, but I’ll try.”

 

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Zach assures him, nodding. “I’m a rogue, if anyone was interested.”

 

“No one was,” Auston quips, and Zach flips him off.

 

“Alright, let’s settle in,” Dylan says, doing his best to sound authoritative. “This adventure shouldn’t take too long to complete, it’s just meant to give you an idea. Is everyone good? Drinks and blankets and stuff?”

 

There’s a general consensus, and then Dylan’s opening the book, tucking his notes away, and everyone falls silent.

 

_ After speaking with the stranger, you collectively start talking about what you’ve heard. You find that by combining your partnerships with close friends whom you’ve previously worked with, the six of you have the skillset and potential to go either defeat or reason with the great dragon that has descended on this mountain town. You gather that it’s about a full day’s journey on foot, with horses only able to take you as far as the base of the mountain, but the camping conditions should not be too adverse.  _

 

_ Chiz the Bard and Z the Rogue offer to go barter for supplies and rooms in the inn above the tavern - you’ll set off in the morning and make camp for the following night in the mountain, or in the village, depending on how far you can get. Z is mostly successful in his attempts to haggle down the price of some horses for your journey, and Chiz secures the necessary equipment. A representative from the local governing body stops by in the morning, as the sun is cresting over the hills and you are packing the horses, the frost still clinging to your fingertips and ears. _

 

“This is your first encounter,” Dylan explains, pausing to clear his throat. Thatcher scribbles something on his notepad, brow furrowed. He steps up to volunteer to negotiate, and John listens aptly, and then about ten minutes later, the party is heading into the woods.

 

+

 

The thing about John is that he’s never _ not _ been the center of Thatcher’s world. 

 

He’s so self confident, and so - radiant. Contradictory. Beautiful blond hair and a softness to the way he lists against Thatcher’s side when he’s a little drunk, or super tired for that matter. But he’s so fucking loud in contrast to his quiet touch, screaming on the ice, dancing on guys at parties and pulling them into the bathroom with a smirk flitting across his face in the low light.

 

Thatcher notices, and keeps a mental game notebook.

 

He’s been trying to decipher John for years, how these impossible contrasts create such an alluring nineteen year old boy.

 

It doesn’t make sense, how John says he doesn’t want to go out but tags along when Thatcher texts him the address of the party, how he’s so willing to sacrifice himself for his friends but so adamant that no one else does the same, how he said he had a rule against dating teammates but pressed his lips to Thatcher’s last week in the corner of the kitchen at the hockey house, groaning a little when he found no resistance and Thatcher’s eyes slipped shut to kiss him back.

 

They haven’t talked about it since then.

 

He guesses the rules haven’t changed.

 

+

 

_ Before you stands a barren forest, complex and dark, the wind whispering through the trees as they stand panting, blood smeared across Delhax’s robes, his breath rattling in and out from the force of the surprise attack. Without a cleric in your party, you can see he’s having a hard time. Someone will need to heal him enough for him to successfully use magic again. The creature that ran at you isn’t evil looking, oddly enough. It’s humanoid, a little smaller than you, its eyes a cloudy grey, no pupils, skin slightly transparent and illuminated from within as if the skin has been stretched over a lamp of divine energy. Its fingers are long, its skin eerily smooth, and as it opens its mouth, you notice that its teeth are as sharp as knives. “Turn back,” it warns, its breath cold as ice, voice coming from all sides of your party. _

 

“Oh, fuck,” John manages, flipping through the quick guide attached to his character sheet. “Uh, I’m going to heal him, really quickly.”   
  


“Okay, cool.”   
  


“Can I also roll an insight check to see if I know anything about the monster? Since I’m a druid?”

 

“Yes, you can, that’s a D20 die. Someone can assist you if you’d like, to improve your roll.”

 

“I’ll do it,” Matt adds, parsing through his list of skills. “I get advantage in the forest for wisdom or insight or investigation.”

 

“Nice,” Dylan says, clearly happy that at least one person here knows the damn rules. “John, what did you roll?”

 

“Fourteen,” he says, and Matt chimes in, “Add a ten for my help! Total of 24.”

 

_ Heilyn, you and Mercer recognize the creature as a celedon, which, according to your knowledge of magic and arcana, is a servant created by a deity, either good or evil. The one you are up against seems slightly demonic, the energy contained within it flickering in an unnatural way. Perhaps it is from another plane - but you know for sure that it doesn’t belong here. _

 

“Write that down,” Zach whispers, nudging John, and John reaches over the table, stealing Thatcher’s pencil as Thatcher sits helpless, unable to help in the game, unable to speak up to thank John for being so enthusiastic in something that means so much to him.

 

“Great,” Dylan says, and then smiles a little maliciously, the waning light of the setting sun casting shadows on his face. “It’s time to fight. I need you all to roll initiative.”

 

“Christ, here we go,” Auston says, cracking his knuckles and flipping to the combat page, and Matt laughs a little. Thatcher sees him looking at Auston’s hands just a second too long.

 

+

 

Thatcher knows the sidelong glances too well at this point.

 

“Who taught you to kiss like that?” John had said after pulling back, one corner of his mouth upturned. Thatcher stared, at the pink of his lips, barely illuminated, the curve of his nose, focusing on the warmth of John’s hand on the back of his neck. 

 

“No one?” Thatcher responded, self conscious.

 

“Why’s that?” John pried, and Thatcher knew he was drunk, he was so drunk, he wasn’t blackout but he wasn’t himself, this was the only time he ever saw John kissed boys.

 

He saw John a lot, if he was being honest, no matter how many people were in the room.

 

“Dunno,” Thatcher said, and his throat felt so fucking tight, as if John was pinning him down. He wasn’t going to tell John, no way. He may not remember tonight, but he’d sure as hell remember that.

 

John was big, and warm, and everything Thatcher had ever wanted.

 

He had to compromise for the taste of one too many beers on John’s lips.

 

Thatcher is nineteen, and everything is too close, all at once, and he doesn’t think, doesn’t let John get another word in, just pulls him in, kisses him.

 

If it makes him awful - that he’s going to take advantage of John when he’s pliant and willing, keep kissing him and take nothing else but the memories, make sure he doesn’t tell John if John asks, just so Thatcher can get this, even if it isn’t the way he wants - then yeah, he’ll be the bad guy.

 

It’s fucked up, how he went from not wanting to hurt anyone to sick of being hurt.

 

+

 

_ The celedon lunges at Mercer first, its hands wrapped around its shortsword, and Mercer manages to dodge, rolling across the ground. _

 

“I’m going to hunter’s mark him and then roll to take a shot with a fire arrow at its shoulder,” Matt says, determined, and Auston peers over his shoulder as he rolls. “Thirteen?”

 

“Thirteen just hits,” Dylan affirms, without missing a beat. Auston looks over at Matt, nudging his shoulder, and Matt grins, rolling again. “That’s nineteen points of damage.”

 

“Attaboy,” Auston mutters, ruffling Matt’s hair. Matt blushes. Thatcher knows how nice it feels when someone important to you cares about something you’re really interested in.

 

_ The arrow flies, looking like it might not hit, but it ends up striking its target. The fire seems to disturb the energy of the creature just enough to throw it off guard, and it looses a great cry, screeching as the fire sizzles across a wide area of its chest before seeming to lose fuel and burn out. The actual body of the arrow cannot be seen, and you can’t tell whether it has passed through or was burned to ash upon its impact with the celedon. As you back away from it and notch another arrow, Brad gives you a fist bump. The forest is illuminated now, stark orange light on the trunks of the trees. _

 

They’ve orbited each other for a while, what with Arizona and Pioneer and now here, somehow in the same place for the summer. All of them are tired, from skating and running and waiting, but Auston and Matt never seem to exhaust each other enough to stop trying to best each other, maybe to impress the other.

 

It makes sense, then, that they both read up on the game as soon as Dylan put out the call. 

 

The party kiss happened to them, a long time ago. And then again, at a post-junior year party. And then at a senior party, and then this summer, and then at a club, their fakes tucked into their back pockets. Thatcher doesn’t know what’s worse - getting halfway where you want over and over but never getting there for real, or getting there once, only to run away.

 

The glint in Matt’s eye isn’t enough of an indication. God knows he’s gotten good at keeping to himself, using the energy to piss off other people on the ice instead.

 

“I would like to rage,” Auston says carefully, timing it just right and saying it just ridiculously enough that Matt chokes on his drink. “And pull out my axe, and just go straight for the light in its chest.”

 

Dylan gives a little look that, from a DM, can only mean trouble. Matt claps him on the shoulder, leaning in close, and it’s a little bit of a sore spot for Thatcher, seeing them too close, no matter how shitty their situation may be, not being able to tell each other anything.

 

“Go ahead and roll,” Dylan says, and Auston smiles, cocky. “Eighteen. Gimme that celedon flesh -”

 

“Not so fast,” Dylan says, and Charlie flips Auston off as Auston’s face falls.

 

_ You bring your axe up to swing at him, and it looks to strike dead on - except it passes right through the celedon’s chest with a weird dull hum of a sound. The blade of the axe is now white-hot to the touch, and you blink, confused, your head swimming a little bit at the sudden burst of light. It looks like regular attacks won’t do damage to this creature. You’ll need to find another way. You take 8 points of radiant damage from the pushback and are stunned, unable to move on your next turn. _

 

Auston shrinks back a little, quiet. Matt focuses in more on his character sheets.

 

+

 

There are some moments when Thatcher has thought that maybe, just maybe, John loves him back.

 

Last year, John missed three classes to take the train to Boston and let himself into Thatcher’s room and curl up in his bed with him because he was failing, and his sister was in the hospital, and his parents wouldn’t stop screaming at each other. Thatcher went out the night before, drank to almost black out, riding an edge he didn’t ever want to find. He doesn’t remember calling John, only waking up nauseous and dizzy to see John staring at him, fond and a little sad, curled up on his side. 

 

“We gotta talk about this,” John said, quietly, and reached out to push Thatcher’s hair off his face, press the backs of his fingers to Thatcher’s burning forehead.

 

“Bathroom,” Thatcher had said weakly, and walked down the hall as an excuse, but ended up throwing up anyways.

 

He felt heavy, disoriented, but he came back to his room and John was there with a new shirt for him and a bottle of water, his arms open wide. They talked for two hours and fell back asleep until dinner, his fists curled in John’s t-shirt like a lifeline, John’s breath warm against his hair.

 

It still feels like a fever dream.

 

+

 

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Thatcher announces as he starts to stand, voice cracking a little bit. John reaches for his hand, his eyes wide. “No. Don’t. Uh - stay? We might take it down this turn. I was going to do a combination melee and spell attack, just stay to see if I land the hit?”

 

He sounds so eager. Thatcher’s chest aches.

 

“Okay,” he mutters, and John grabs the dice he borrowed, counting to three and rolling them halfway across the coffee table. 

 

Zach peers down at them. “Holy shit.”

 

“What?”

 

“Natural 20. Double damage. Critical hit.”   
  


There’s a second of pause and then everyone is cheering, and John is smiling from ear to ear. He makes eye contact with Thatcher, searching, considering, and Thatcher feels like he’s melting on the inside, just a little.

 

“How do you choose to deal the death blow?” Dylan asks, and John breathes in, considering more.

 

“I’d like to force my staff against its throat, and use a combat spell - a cantrip? - to blast away the energy, separating the soul from its form, and I wanna kick it to the ground, and say  _ Nobody hurts the ones I love, asshole  _ before I run over to Delhax to make sure he’s okay.”

 

_ You get your hands around its throat, and it’s right there, so close within reach, its arcane heart beating underneath your grip as you tell it off, furious. There’s an energy in your eyes, something past just magic, maybe, as you come to an understanding about the beast, and its form shivers, crumpling to the ground and disintegrating. The ball of energy left behind dissolves, exploding outwards, a horizontal arc of light across the forest, and everything is illuminated - _

 

“You didn’t need to check on me,” Thatcher says, as if he’s Delhax, but it sounds betrayingly true, genuine in an aching way. “You’re hurt. It clawed you. You’re bleeding.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” John says. His voice isn’t as lofty now, the character fading by the second. “He’s gone now.”

 

John’s face is soft, his gaze insistent and searching and lost, the circlet of flowers in his hair starting to droop towards the back. He’s beautiful. He always is.

 

“Why are you here,” Thatcher replies, barely audible. He sounds hurt. The entire room seems to be holding its breath. “Is it just because of me?”

 

Zach puts his hands over his mouth in Thatcher’s peripheral vision, and Charlie’s eyes are wide, concerned, hanging on every word, until Thatcher’s focus shifts and it’s just John, in the stupid fucking flower crown, looking at Thatcher like he just kicked his dog or something.

 

“Of course I am,” John manages. He’s twisting his hands in his lap. “Like I said. The ones I love.”

 

“John,” Thatcher says, simple, and he isn’t sure where the game ends and they begin.

 

“I didn’t know how to tell you - it’s fine if you -” John sighs. “Look. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be having this conversation in front of everyone.”

 

“It’s okay!” Matt says, more of a squeak than anything else, and his blanket is pulled up and around his chin, hiding half of his face.

 

“Hayds, look at me.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You know I love you, right?”

 

“What?”

 

“I love you,” Thatcher repeats. It’s simpler than he thought it would be. “I love your strength, and how fucking loud you are, and how much you care about the people you’re close to, how you put everything on hold for them, you know? You’re so willing for me to drag you into battle, to try new things, to go out with me - with us - as moral support when you aren’t feeling it. You know yourself. You know how to listen to the people around you. That’s amazing.”

 

“Oh,” John says, quiet, and he’s staring at Thatcher. Thatcher stares back, not breaking his gaze.

 

Dylan reshuffles the deck of papers he’s holding, exchanging a glance with Zach. Charlie reaches down to clean his glasses.

 

+

 

If you were to ask Thatcher how he thought the whole encounter would go, it sure as hell wasn’t like this.

 

He isn’t much of a storyteller, but he’d always loved imagining that John would break first. That they’d fight, or Thatcher would confess it in a heated dispute over game strategy, or that John would just slam him against a wall one day and kiss him, this time sober, and pull back with his lips all red and say  _ You know I mean it this time, I meant it last time too _ .

 

In that verison, Thatcher always tugs him in by the collar of his shirt and kisses him back, hot and deep and indecent yet so, so properly.

 

They’ve always been close, even ended up at college not even an hour of a train ride apart. 

 

It seems impossible that Thatcher wouldn’t have fallen for him.

 

+

 

It’s so quiet, only the low grind and  _ whoosh  _ as the temporary window air conditioning unit turns back on. Michigan in the summer is brutal in the day and mild in the evening. Thatcher swears he’s never felt this vulnerable.

 

All eyes in the room are on him and John.

 

“Um,” John says, meek. “Dylan - do I have a bonus action?”

 

Dylan blinks in confusion for a second. “What?”

 

“In the - game. The game.”

 

“Oh! Yeah.”

 

“Okay,” John manages, and his breath seems too loud as he inhales, nervously fidgeting with the dice in his hand. “I reach out and I kiss Delhax, and I pull him to meet me, and I wipe the blood from his cheek.”

 

Matt squeals, and Auston’s face lights up.

 

“John,” Thatcher says quietly, his face hot, and John smiles, clearly nervous. 

 

“And I pull back, and I say, in my most serious druid voice,  _ full homo _ .”

 

“That’s not really something that your character would -”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“Okay, okay.”

 

“I kiss him back,” Thatcher says. They’re still staring at each other. John’s smile gets wider. 

 

“Get a room!” Charlie groans, and it breaks the tension enough for everyone to laugh. 

 

“Well,” Dylan says, amused. “Damn, I don’t know how anyone can compete with that. Do we wanna break for pizza after wrapping up this celedon?”

 

“PIZZA!” Auston yells, and Matt shoves him. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

 

_ As Heilyn shatters the form of the celedon, the radiant energy seems to pour out of it, the almost liquid substance of its soul evaporating. The smoke curls away and up the mountain, towards where you know the dragon to be.  _

 

“Oh shit!” Charlie interjects. “Guys, the spirit - that’s why the dragon is being such an asshole. The demon god possessed it.”

 

Matt hums consideringly, and Thatcher writes it down. Dylan looks simultaneously irked and pleased that someone figured it out and blurted it out to the rest of the group.

 

_ The six of you sit back, relaxing against the trees, making sure that the camp you made is intact. Nothing seems to be significantly harmed, though one of the horses has some minor wounds from errant sword-wielding that someone will need to heal up. You still have a few hours to rest, but you’ll need to switch out the watch even though no danger appears to be in the vicinity.  _

 

“I’ll take watch, since I don’t need much healing,” Auston volunteers, and Dylan nods, writing it down. 

 

“The rest of the night goes by without difficulty,” Dylan says after rolling a few times to do some survival checks. “We’ll pick back up for your course of action in the morning after our break.”

 

“Sweet,” Charlie says, high fiving Zach before stretching his back out and standing up.

 

“I’ll bring you two some pizza if you wanna sit and talk this out for a few,” Dylan offers as everyone else starts to wander towards the kitchen. “I mean, you guys were going to have to work together to defeat the dragon eventually, we need two magic users to extract the possessing spirit, so.”

 

“Ah well.” John shrugs. “Sounds pretty easy, yeah?”

 

“Of course,” Thatcher says, and John is standing up, coming to sit next to him so he can bump their shoulders together. “I think we can manage that.”


End file.
